


The Spoils of Summer

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Community: trope_bingo, Established Relationship, Food Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Object Insertion, Size Kink, Voyeurism, zucchinisports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 06:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What if Javert fucks himself with a zucchini while Valjean is watching and it's the hottest thing ever."</p><p>Yes. That's pretty much what this is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spoils of Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



It is warm. The window is half open, but there is not much of a breeze. The sounds of busy Paris spill in, although the usual din and clamor are subdued. 

It is too hot.

Sweat beads on Javert's skin. He is naked, and that alone sets his heart to beat faster with a secret thrill. He is alone in his chamber; his neighbors are out. No one can see him, but even so he shivers with equal parts horror and delight as his eyes alight once more on the open window. It is impossible that anyone could see: his chamber is situated high up in the old building, and as he kneels on the wooden floor, all he can see is a sliver of blue sky. But even so, to do this thing exposed to the world seems obscene, sinful, and he licks his lips and swallows before he leans forward for a better view.

Before him stands his mirror. He has taken it from its accustomed place and leaned it against the wall, and there on the smooth surface, he now finds his image reflected in such detail that he should close his eyes in shame. Javert is flushed, dripping sweat; the neat ponytail clings to his slick back. He is a grotesque thing of skin too pale and too red and limbs too long and thin, and he has seen men like him cavort in similar images of immoral lewdness. They might have been younger men, but as he bites his lip and groans, helpless and overcome, he thinks that the expression on their faces must have been the same.

This is how far he has fallen.

His mouth is dry; his heart beats heavily in his chest, sending pulse after pulse of sluggish blood through graceless limbs. And still his body arches, and he watches, ashamed and sick with lust, how the mirror shows him the truth of himself: how his knees spread wider, how his hips rise and fall, how he has slicked the small opening with oil so that now in the mirror, the muscle gleams and stretches around the large vegetable he is riding.

He has only done it on the bed so far, on his back, but now it is getting to a point where that is not enough anymore, where he is able to take so much that the burn of the stretch and the feeling of fullness as the thick shape glides slowly inside forces moan after moan from him while he trembles and aches. This is the man's prick, he thinks and has to hold himself up with one hand, imagines that this is Valjean, that he has been spread open with large, careful hands that are so gentle, always so gentle, and that there is nothing gentle at all about the penetration.

His breath hitches as he moves his hips, feels himself accept the intrusion and slide down a little more, yielding to the full girth of the vegetable that he has propped against the floor. Valjean has touched it, he reminds himself, panting as he watches his body stretch around it in the mirror. Valjean has grown it with those same careful, loving hands that will frame his face and hold him still for kisses that are sweet like a drink of cool water on a hot day.

But now it is not enough anymore. Now he wants to burn, wants Valjean to fill him with heat, to spread him open and take him apart with those strong hands, and then fill him with fire until this need inside him is burned away. Maybe then he will be cleansed, will be able to think freely again.

He leans his head against the mirror. His panting fogs the glass; sweat drips down his nape. His eyes linger with shamed delight on the slick, green skin of the zucchini; it is the largest vegetable he has taken so far, thrice the girth of what he started with. He knows; he has kept lists. 

It has taken a while to work up to this, but he has filled a small, black notebook diligently every week as he progressed. It is a sordid reminder of the things he has done here in his bedroom. Every number reveals a crime: the way he measured the vegetables Valjean gave so innocently as a gift; the way he slicked them with oil, and then stripped himself, bared his immorality to the eyes of the world, or at least the eyes of God. Every number is a memory of how his limbs learned to writhe and his voice learned to moan, of how he shivered here on his bed as he learned how to relax around such an intrusion, until at last there came the knowledge that even a body as harsh and rigid as his own could melt into yielding heat at the thought of giving this to Valjean.

Javert shudders and groans and, desperate now, spreads his legs farther until his thighs ache with the strain as the large zucchini slides in another fraction. Earlier, he has wrapped a measuring tape around the thick shape, his throat suddenly dry as he touched the smooth skin with his fingers while he thought of what use it would be put to. To read the measurement and know that Valjean's generous endowment measured up to this sent a thrill through him that was terrifying in its intensity. He remembers again the thickness of the ripe shape as he tightened the tape carefully and then noted down the number in neat, orderly writing, and it still makes his heart stutter in his chest to look at the long line of dates and measurements and know that each and every number is a mark for his sinning. 

He has taken to carrying the notebook around with him. It burns in his pocket like a brand on his soul. He tells himself that even a curious glance would reveal nothing but a list of numbers without meaning, but he is uncomfortably aware of the weight of it in his pocket. If M. Chabouillet would find it and leaf through it in curiosity, or young Bernard at the station-house, who is often too curious for his own good – would they not know? 

It seems impossible to him that a person could look at that long string of dates and not immediately see Javert's obscene exercise regimen. Do not these innocent numbers whisper of how on every noted day he was teaching himself to take more, and more, and yet more, until he has come to this point? Is the truth not visible in his handwriting now, in the way he moves and breathes: that when he is home, when he is alone, he will imagine Valjean's hands on him, Valjean's impressive prick _in_ him until he is tight and yielding at once, clenching and moaning around the thick intrusion of the gently curved vegetable?

He closes his eyes and pants against the mirror. Damn the man, he thinks and shudders at the sweet pressure within. Damn the man who is too loving and good and too well endowed to simply take him and fuck him. Damn the man who has allowed Javert to look at his prick, and touch it with his hands to bring Valjean to release that way, leaving Javert with nothing but the memory of that sweet weight in his hand, but grows embarrassed and turns away when Javert brings up the way he wishes to be used by it.

Javert moans against the mirror in regret. Valjean is too kind. Valjean does not want to hurt him, and it is true that Valjean is impressive. When Javert's greedy hands have massaged him to hardness, it seems impossible that the fabric of his trousers can contain the wealth of him. But that is not an obstacle, Javert thinks viciously, and then bites his lip as his hips move just a fraction and the pressure within him increases in just the right way.

Imagine Valjean fucking him like this, he thinks. Imagine Valjean opening him with sweet oil and careful fingers; imagine Valjean pressing him into the mattress and touching his face with reverent hands while that impressive prick pushes against him. Imagine staring up into Valjean's face as he is taken with impossible gentleness and relentless strength, that large shape sliding slowly into him, beautifully hard, and all he can do is look up at Valjean and pant for breath and _feel_ the way Valjean turns his body into his own, takes possession of all he is--

The sound that escapes him as his hips move up and then down again is almost a whine, something soft and broken and desperate with need. It takes him a moment to realize that there was another sound as well. 

When he turns his head, his groan frozen in his throat, his eyes wide with fear although his heart is still beating loud and hard in his chest, he expects his landlady, or maybe one of his neighbors – he has not been too loud, has he? But no; no one is home today, and he locked the door; he made certain to lock the door – _did_ he lock the door?

He cannot breathe. For a moment, a band of iron is tightening around his chest. Terror grips him at being found in such a way; how will he ever--

His eyes meet Valjean's. 

It is Valjean, standing in the door, staring at him with wide-eyed shock. Javert begins to breathe again. He still cannot talk or move, but now air fills his chest once more, and he holds Valjean's gaze, silent and mortified at being found like this.

Valjean does not speak either. After a moment, he turns towards the door, and this time, Javert hears the sound the key makes as he locks it.

When Valjean faces him once more, he is visibly searching for words. Javert wonders if he will make a quip – but no words come, and Javert breathes heavily, feels his blood pulsate between his legs as he feels the pressure of the vegetable within. 

He can still see himself in the mirror. He knows what a spectacle he is: all wild, tangled hair and sweaty skin, and thighs spread wide apart, slick with the oil he has used so copiously to ease the largest of Valjean's vegetable crop inside himself.

At last, Valjean gathers himself and steps closer. A shudder runs through Javert. A groan escapes him, and he can see the effect the sound has on Valjean: he stops; his eyes widen; he raises a trembling hand to his hair.

And there, Javert thinks, wetting suddenly dry lips, there behind his trousers stirs his prick, pressing gently against the fabric that cannot stretch enough to contain the full wealth of it.

He looks at it, entranced to see the immense shape slowly unfurl, and then his hips jerk involuntarily, the zucchini presses just _there_ again, and his eyes fall shut as he shudders and moans, pressing himself down further onto the thick object until all he can do is pant with helpless need. How can anything feel so good, he thinks brokenly, how can he do this and watch his shame in the mirror and know that he locked up a hundred men who looked just like he looks now, and _still_ it feels too good to stop?

After a moment, he opens his eyes again. He is dazed; his body tries to tighten around the huge intrusion and cannot; his sore hole aches and yet is so slick with oil the he could force the vegetable deeper inside, could imagine Valjean's hands on it as it slides in, spreading him and filling him--

And then Valjean's hands are on him indeed, and Valjean gives him a shaken look.

“Javert,” Valjean asks, his voice soft, breathless, “Javert, what...”

He cannot finish the question, and Javert is almost too far gone for words.

Gratefully, he leans his sweaty forehead against Valjean's shoulder, shivers and moans as he slides down onto the object another impossible score. 

“It's... your size,” he gasps out at last, tightening around it again for the exquisite ache as the words remind him of that sensation he craves so desperately: the heat of Valjean, the sensation of warm, living flesh taking him. “I took measurements. You said you didn't want to hurt me, that that was why you wouldn't – ah, God, Valjean, I want you!”

Valjean's breathing is coming fast as well now. His hands brush some of the tangled, sweaty hair away from Javert's face. “You did this for me, with my measurements? Javert?” he asks, sounding insecure, and breathless with what Javert hopes is not disgust.

“Ah, dear God, don't look at me,” Javert begs, then moans another sound of need against Valjean's shoulder. Valjean's hand slides down his sweat-slick back, and Javert shudders and tenses with a helpless gasp as he slides down on the zucchini even further. He is full, so full; it presses against him just _there_ , and it feels terrifyingly right.

Javert tosses back his hair, moans again when he find Valjean watching him with dazed, bright eyes. “Please, Valjean. I promise, I took notes. For so long, I took notes, it is all – Valjean please, I can take it, you won't hurt me--”

Now it is Valjean who groans, and Valjean's hand that trembles as it strokes up and down his back. “You took notes?” Valjean asks and nearly chokes on the idea. “Notes on what you could take? On the size? Is that what you are saying, Javert?”

 _Oh God_ , Javert thinks again and trembles. It sounds so obscene coming from Valjean's mouth. It is as filthy as every banned book he ever confiscated, as lewd as every insult a drunk soldier ever yelled in a brothel. And it is true; it is all true, and hearing it from Valjean's lips makes the heat within even more unbearable.

He breathes heavily. With every lungful of air that fills his chest, he feels the hot pulse of his body around the object within him, this smooth, unyielding thing which Valjean had grown so innocently, gifting to him with warm, pleased smiles – never knowing what Javert would use it for in the solitude of his chamber, once the need became too much.

Javert exhales shakily and forces himself to meet Valjean's eyes. “Yes,” he says, and makes himself hold Valjean's gaze instead of straying to his reflection in the mirror. He has seen it earlier, after all. He knows what he looks like, spread open around the smooth, long shape, gleaming with oil. 

“Yes, that's what I'm saying. For weeks, Valjean. When you would not--” He breaks off and groans again, nearly delirious with need. To feel himself filled so completely; to know Valjean's eyes on him at the same time! The shame of it – and the terrible thrill of it!

“When you feared to hurt me when I asked. I thought I could do it; if I took my time, if I-- See, I can take it!”

Valjean takes a deep breath while Javert trembles under his scrutiny. Slowly, Valjean's hand drops lower, until at last it rests on Javert's thigh, and then strokes upward. 

Javert has to bite back another moan. He cannot believe that this is real – but Valjean's hand on him is warm, and trails ever closer, and then Valjean's fingers brush the thin, stretched skin around the vegetable, and Javert cannot even say who it is of the two of them that moans with helpless desire now.

“Javert, good God,” Valjean breathes, and keeps touching him there, his eyes filled with need and a strange, shaken reluctance. “You really did – does it hurt?”

Javert shakes his head. Then his eyes fall close and he shudders when Valjean's fingers jar the vegetable, and it rubs within him again to send sparks of bright pleasure through his body. This time he is not even ashamed of the whimper that spills from his lips.

“It feels good, so good,” he says when he can talk again, and would have blushed at the absurdity of the conversation if he was not already past shame. “Please,” he begs and watches helplessly how that makes Valjean's eyes darken. 

“Please. Please tell me it's enough; please tell me you believe me; oh God, Valjean, please tell me you'll fuck me!”

Valjean exhales a shuddering laugh against his skin. Javert groans again when those fingers tighten around the zucchini, pulling it out a little only to allow it to slide back in. 

“Maybe I will, Javert,” Valjean says, and then releases the vegetable and reaches out to where the notebook rests on the floor. 

“But maybe I'm not sure how. Maybe first, you'll have to show me how you fuck yourself.”

Javert tenses and arches, a soft whine escaping as his body pulses with need. Valjean should not speak such filthy words, he thinks to himself, and then his eyes fall on his reflection again, and the sees the truth of himself, the way the vegetable penetrates his slick hole, the way his own prick has left wet smears of need on his stomach. Valjean should not look at him. Ah, God, he wants Valjean to look at him so much.

“Maybe this time,” Valjean says, and their eyes meet in the mirror where Javert knows himself so utterly exposed, “maybe this time, I'll take your notes for you.”


End file.
